


Once A Wolf

by KingHenry17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Self-Reflection, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingHenry17/pseuds/KingHenry17
Summary: Sansa Stark is in a den of lions, and she misses her home. But unlike others in the den of lions, Sansa Stark has mastered the art of being a wolf in sheep's clothing. She doesn't need to bare her teeth to be dangerous.





	Once A Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever! Please leave comments, constructive criticism, anything! I would love for comments on my writing in general. Now, please enjoy my fic!

Sansa Stark hears what they say. She hears their words behind their back, in the taverns and far away from her. She knows they are not for her ears, but she hears them anyway. Because that is who she is now, she knows the forest around her as she paws her way through the kingdom. The sparrows cheep, cheep from high out of reach, and she can do nothing about it. She knows an owl, one who knows all the smallest birds, but he will not help her. Not when she is captive of the lions.   
    Cersei has control over her pride right now, there is no doubt about it. She has the love and adoration of the commoners of King’s Landing, because she is perfect to all outsiders. At least, to those who don’t hear the rumors. To Sansa, Cersei is not perfect. Not anymore. Gone in a flash was the queen with the best job in the world, the most glamorous dresses, the most fabulous parties. In her place stands a woman, locked in gold and showing cracks, who is desperately clinging onto her power even as it slips away. Sansa sees those cracks, and will do her best to work them further.   
    The power in the kingdom is divided, Sansa thinks. It will likely stay divided for a long time now. Her brother is still riding south, still on the back of his wolf. She hears the whispers of him bedding a commoner, and she does not believe them. She believes that he does not want to marry a Frey, however.   
    Knowing what she knows of Jon, she can guess he is divided among himself right now. She knows he wants to go south to join Robb’s cause, that’s just who he is. He is their father through and through, all honor in his bones. However, that very same honor is keeping him rooted to the spot on duty in the Night’s Watch. He will do what he feels is the most honorable thing to do, she knows that much. She hopes he joins Robb, but also she knows he is safer where he is. She supposes that she is divided in herself as well.   
    She prowls across the castle, lemons on her breath because she knows she must smell sweet to not be bit. Her eyes carefully sweep the area before her, careful to remain unshaken in the face of the passing pretty-dressed men and women. Her hair is carefully made, just enough detail to earn Cersei’s approval but delicately placed so that Joffrey cannot grab it anywhere. She had done it  and undone it five times before she was satisfied with the outcome, praying to the Seven it would be enough.   
    As she walks, careful to keep from the shadows, her mind drifts. She thinks of her home, her family, her precious Lady. She remembers cold, and light dustings of snow on occasion, and the warmth of her fire and her wolf sleeping next to her with a sleepy growl on her mouth. She was probably dreaming of hunting sheep. She recalls Bran climbing ever higher as though nothing could tear him down, and her heart wrenches knowing she may never see that mischievous smile again.   
    She recalls Robb’s stoic expression, all seriousness and duty for everyone except Theon. She recalls how the whispers went amongst the servants, how so many had thought they were sneaking around as more than just close confidantes. She recalls not having been surprised the first time or the last time she heard it. Robb’s eyes always shone for Theon.   
    She thinks of Arya, of how loudly her sister was different from her. Arya was never a lady, but she always had the same forcefulness present in their mother’s voice. She knew what was right and what was wrong, and she would do whatever she could to defend that. She recalls, in their last days together, how much Arya took to her new sword. Sansa had never seen her sister so happy as when she was swishing around her sword in time with what she remembered Theon and Robb practicing in the yard.    
    She thinks of her mother, red hair and steely determination all the way through. She knows she gets many things from her mother, her hair and her noble aspirations among them. She also knows that her mother is a fearsome creature, and that if Robb were not there, she would lead the army into battle herself if she could. She is already practically queen in the North anyway.   
    She thinks of Jeyne, strength wrapped in sweetness, a true wolf wrapped in sheep’s clothing. She would have adapted so well to King’s Landing, Sansa thinks. It would be nice to have someone else on her side. She misses the days of innocent gossip and playing with Lady in their chambers, and only half listening to Septa Mordane as they watched the cutest guards do their exercises in the yard. There was one who Jeyne had particularly fancied, with short-cut hair and the most wonderful arms. He said he had worked on a ship in his early years. Sansa did not know if she believed him.   
    She does not often think of Rickon, for if she does she will fall down a hole of memory she cannot afford to go down. Stopping herself, she opens her eyes to the staircase up to Cersei’s quarters.   
    She climbs the candlelit stairs, her grey-blue dress brought many moons ago from Winterfell darkened by the muted, flickering yellow and red of the candles on the wall. She picks her battles well, she thinks, for they cannot forget the North when the North is knocking on their door from both ends.   
    As she climbs, she steels herself for what is about to come. She knows they see her as one of their dogs now, so she must make herself seem tame. But behind their backs, when they hunt other prey, she must sharpen her teeth. For when the time comes, and the lions are done roaring, she has some howling to do. She will make the people love her, and she will make the lions pay their true debts.


End file.
